Free The Means by Douglas Brunt Page A

to scratch an itch on the side of his nose. Tom sees his uncle trying to be brave which makes Tom less confused and so less protected and Tom starts to cry too.
    â€œI’m just having a slice now, buddy. That’s all.” Neil’s voice breaks up over the words. He lowers his phone, presses a palm to the glass then stands and walks away and Tom watches the drab green smock disappear behind a prison guard.
    â€œTime to go, honey.” His mother’s face is a disaster.
    They stand from metal folding chairs that scrape the cement floor when the backs of their knees push against the seat.
    They walk along the visitor’s bay to a heavy metal door where a uniformed guard is standing with thumbs in his belt.
    To Tom’s ten-year-old body the prison is huge and cold. The walls are cinder blocks covered pale yellow and haven’t been painted in years. The floor is cement with throw rugs and the lighting is the hanging fluorescent kind that is in school cafeterias.
    The guard is unmoved by Tom’s mother’s face, like a numb Manhattan pedestrian passing the innumerable homeless.
    The admissions room is just as cold. More metal chairs and people behind thick glass, though these people are showered and uniformed, armed and with combed hair.
    They walk faster now, both in a silent cry, knowing that sunshine and an end to claustrophobia are one set of doors away.
    The doors open out. Tom puts his back into it and leads the way for his mother. In the sunshine Tom stops crying. The sidewalks are all at right angles so Tom and his mother zigzag the beige walkways to the blacktop of the parking lot.
    â€œGoddamn lawyer.” It’s rare for his mother to swear but she does it again. “Hasn’t moved things a damn bit.”
    She’s still crying but Tom is done and not close to tears anymore. He’s thinking about something else. Something hopeful. “Mom, I’m going to be a lawyer.”
    She pats his shoulder and smiles a real smile.
    â€œI’ll start some reading up on it today. I’ll help Uncle Neil.”
    â€œThat would be nice, honey.”

9
    Benson Hill rents out Crook’s Corner for a private dinner with Tom, Peter Brand, and the top twenty RNC donors in North Carolina who are all looking forward to an evening with the man they expect to be their next governor.
    Benson picked Crook’s Corner so Tom would feel more comfortable on his home turf of Franklin Street in Chapel Hill. As a student Tom would take his dates here when he had enough money for more than pizza and Schaefer.
    The restaurant and bar has hubcaps on the outside and a pig theme decorating the inside, also a pink pig on a platform and red post high above the roof. It has charm that seems accidental and the cooking is real Southern.
    The tables have the hard, reflective tops of diner tables and the chairs are metal and plastic. The restaurant reconfigures the tables to accommodate the party and at Benson’s insistence Tom is at the head of the table, though Tom has already become comfortable with taking the lead in a room of big shots without any assistance.
    Peter Brand sits at the far end of the table to spread out the campaign insiders with the paying guests. Benson is on Tom’s right and the other donors sit next to Tom in descending order of amount contributed.
    â€œHow’s your wife holding up?” asks Benson.
    â€œShe’s holding us both up. Alison’s amazing.”
    â€œIt’s vey potent, have a guh woman,” says Bubba Greenhouse, seated to Tom’s left in the number-one-donor chair. “Vey.”
    Most North Carolina accents in the major cities and university towns are mild. A twang and a few y’alls here and there. Bubba sounds almost Cajun. “Where you from, Bubba?” asks Tom.
    â€œNawlens.” He smiles. “Rigley. Now ah live in Duck Beach. Been theyah twunny yeeahs.”
    â€œBubba has substantial farming and hunting